


five hundred and fifty muffins

by MajorEnglishEsquire



Series: PWP: Pie Without Plot [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comfort Food, Food, M/M, PWP: Pie Without Plot, Post-Season/Series 08, Team Free Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 06:05:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3346289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorEnglishEsquire/pseuds/MajorEnglishEsquire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has baked 550 muffins and he's got a lot of fucking love for muffins but he doesn't wanna see another goddamn one of them in his life.</p>
<p>Prompted by <a href="http://casfallsinlove.tumblr.com/post/105892843948">a photo taken by casfallsinlove</a> and originally <a href="http://apocalypse-patisserie.tumblr.com/post/105914873978/casfallsinlove-so-this-was-in-one-of-the-books">posted here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	five hundred and fifty muffins

Dean has baked 550 muffins and he's got a lot of fucking love for muffins but he doesn't wanna see another goddamn one of them in his life (it'll end up being just about a month, in all honesty).

His hands puff flour and grind with decorative sugar when he dashes them together and he's so sick of the venture he can't even peel the paper off one of the glistening blueberry muffins just to taste the final product. His belly feels like lead, he's tasted so many of the fillers and toppings. He couldn't possibly manage even the crusty top off of one of them.

He's never done mass production on this scale and the kitchen they're occupying today is a wonder in itself with its endless supply of rolling racks and gigantic mixers. He swears he could curl up in the bowl of one of them and sleep comfortably.

The time in this facility was bought for them by the company that wanted the catering done just outside the convention center -- one of their execs had visited the food truck and marveled at the local offerings Dean and Cas had whipped up before they could find another city to (hunt in) move on to. And he'd begged for them to fulfill a contract and help him host an end-of-the-year awards breakfast for his company.

A theme park with thousands of employees.

Dean would have turned the guy down, but Cas had been the one at the window, on the receiving end of the praise, and was up for the challenge. They're already licensed to cook, serve, and sell in this state and Cas was "just a little bored."

Fucking 550 muffins  _bored?_  Five days of prep  _bored?_  Dean had taken one glace at the staggering numbers the company had offered for the contract and balked. He'd taken a longer look and refused, called Cas some names he didn't appreciate, and then had to be…. convinced. In the sexy way.

The hotel attached to the convention center was a delightful place for them to stay while they did the work. He'd only had a small panic attack after signing the papers. He recovered in a giant steam shower with Cas petting his ass and sucking bruises onto his chest.

They were about to make an amazing profit, after all, and could afford the luxury.

So the muffins are taken care of, Cas already pounded out the bagels like the old hand he is. Even Sam will be pitching in for once: he's diligently concocted a waffle mix and will be pouring it over the huge iron, making them to order in between working with servers and toasting items as needed.

They don't have to handle the bar, and thank fuck for that. Smoothies, teas, coffees, juices, mimosas and more were contracted separately since they didn't have a local liquor license.

When Dean thinks about the pure volume of food they've already made and considers the relief of not mixing drinks on top of it, he has to sit down in the walk-in and stare into a crate of lemons for a while. Sam discovers him and only laughs a little, nervously, before hauling him off the freezing floor and back out to his station. He turns Dean around by the shoulders and snaps to make him focus. He weighs things out, visually, as if each scenario were sitting in his hands.

Sam presents the left, dropping it like it's heavy and full and says, "Archangels conning us into starting the apocalypse," then he cups his right hand in the air and raises it higher than the other, "half a pallet of bacon and breakfast for a bunch of roller coaster operators."

Dean nods, takes a deep breath and turns to his cutting board.

Soon they've gotta move on to the fresher fare. He and Cas rock-paper-scissors for cinnamon roll duty. Dean wants it and Dean wins.

They've already got several good loaves of bread that will be stiff enough to french toast by serving time and, to minimize the volume of eggs made to-order, they're gonna have quiches stuffed with all kinds of things.

Sam makes note of their vegetarian, vegan, and gluten-free options. He insists on a last-minute batch of banana bread the night before, so they're not just offering oatmeal to the meatless folks. And he works with the convention center’s in-house printshop on display cards and menus since their favorite marketing pro is busy with her finals.

They start early on the day-of. Earlier than they did for the wedding. And thinking about that, Dean snags a finger in the looped strings of Cas's apron and tugs him close, kisses him under his ear.

They're kinda good at this. All of it. He forgets that until the food is on the plates and he catches a whiff, a stray aroma that smells like when he'd pull the key out and open the front door to the bakery, ushering the first customers in and stirring the scents from the front case.

And all during service his body is more than ready to respond to on-the-fly demands. He feels attentive and springy in front of the flat-top, timing himself and getting good numbers. His knifework as good as it is when he's hunting. Better, maybe.

He can't bring himself to cross the service hall and look out over that giant room. The rows and rows of tables were daunting enough. Seeing the muffins lined up in tiers was enough. He's convinced that one person pulverizing an orange-cranberry muffin with disinterest, yawning through the sales and attendance counts presented by their bosses, will crush him. He wants everyone to love everything, he wants for everyone to be absorbed and well-fed, and, all at the same time, he knows that an audience this massive will contain at least some unhappy dissenters.

Someone sends their waffles back and even though Dean didn't have a hand in it, Sammy did. He'd rip out their throat if he knew who they were.

He really can't go into that big room.

Cas does, because he likes taking pictures when they do something this wildly uncharacteristic. He finds a misprint in a banner that the company brought to "congretulate" the security team on the amount of collars made this year and sends the pic to Tracy to make her smile.

Most of what's left is boxed up and sent back to the theme park in vans. Some attendants and managers in early-morning shifts hadn't been able to make their way to the celebration. Sam and Cas pull giant rollers of plastic wrap out and send stuff off to the break rooms of the different park attractions. When the vehicles are full, Cas spirits some away to their truck to drop off at the local shelter. The weather's grown colder and all he can think about is how empty the convention center will stand tonight, and how the homeless they'd questioned on their hunt had been huddled in masses under the bridge. He can easily envision some of his fallen brothers and sisters in their crowds and thus won't abide by any waste. He takes basically all the food in the industrial kitchen that's unlikely to be missed, even the stuff they didn’t have a hand in purchasing for the event.

Dean handles the clean-up effort and that's when he finally goes into the big convention hall. Staff are milling around with huge trash bags and a few of the theme park VPs stick around to shake hands. As Dean's counting what's left of the muffins and other pastries (not much, to his satisfaction), one of them breaks away to come thank him.

"No chance I could get a recipe for the missus, is there? That dish with the potato and the spicy sausage? Amazing."

"Chorizo," Dean corrects him and tries not to snap it. "And sorry, but no. Glad you liked it, though."

He thinks he might have come off a little short with the guy, even though he was trying to act professional. But Dean realizes, as they talk, that he  _is_  a professional, by now. And he, like Cas, can look at these people gorging themselves on catered breakfast and "congretulateing" themselves and he's completely free to shake their hands, take their money, and thanklessly save their asses from poltergeists, then burn out of town with anything that wasn't nailed down.

Their only legitimate account is still Cas's so Sam gets out his laptop and ensures that their pay gets deposited while Dean cooks up his leftover waffle batter. Cas was being conservative with the stuff he stole from the walk-in before, but Dean tells him to grab the rest of it and he packs the food truck up to the roof vents. They clean up the last of the work and Dean does one final survey for anything else he wants.

Fuck it.

He grabs the box of lemons he'd been staring into the day before. He doesn't know what he'll do with it, but he'll do something.

The food they already cooked and baked goes to the shelter. It frees up enough room in the truck for them to park it near the slummy part of downtown and start cooking again. It's been a long day, but they stay on their feet and Sam hunts down the homeless who had been terrorized, who had lost friends and family in the attacks that had drawn them into the city in the first place. The ghosts have been at rest for over a week, now, but the people who have to live here haven't been getting rest of their own. They stay on the move when it’s this cold and they scrape and struggle to survive.

Dean and Cas pump food out of the truck and just hand it down, today. No menu, no register till. Sam draws small crowds over until everyone has gotten food in their bellies and then they move on to another encampment. It's not holiday food, it's not the stuff that those Senior Vice Presidents of Sales and whatever will enjoy when they're at home unwrapping presents, but it's still good, filling stuff. Warm and full of flavor and THIS Dean can watch. He can watch close and make sure that teenage kid doesn't get hassled for the extra sandwich he stuffed in his pocket for later. He will happily stay on his exhausted feet for this crowd. This is a meal he's happy to host.


End file.
